Roarke's Kingdom

by Sandra Marton

  Dear God, she thought, help me.

  What a fool she’d been to accept Roarke’s offer.

  Why hadn’t she considered what life would be like if she did?

  Slowly, she made her way to her bedroom and shut the door after her.

  She’d spent, what, two minutes imagining how difficult things would be—and then she’d looked at Roarke and said “yes.”

  Roarke wanted her to stay. She had wanted to stay.

  So she’d stayed.

  Now, she was dancing on the edge of disaster.

  She spent her days with a little girl she’d come to love as deeply as if she were her own, her evenings and weekends with a man she’d come to—to like too much…

  Hell.

  She loved him.

  She adored him.

  “And you knew it when you agreed to stay,” she whispered. “You knew it!”

  Jennifer walked to the French doors and opened them to the warm evening breeze.

  What on earth had she been thinking? Life wasn’t a story out of Susanna’s book of fairy tales. If it were, Roarke would have asked her to stay because he’d fallen in love with her and she would be the good, honest woman he thought she was.

  But this wasn’t a fairy tale.

  Roarke was attracted to her. She knew that. But he was still in love with his ex. There was no room in his heart for another woman. As for Susanna—she belonged to her father. And to her mother, even if that mother didn’t want her.

  Jennifer groaned as she sank down in a chair.

  It couldn’t go on like this.

  You couldn’t love a man you couldn’t ever have, love a child who was another woman’s without paying a price, and heartache was the terrible price you’d pay.

  The realization had been building inside her for days. She’d kept ignoring it like someone who thought you could confront a demon by pretending it wasn’t really there.

  A sob rose in her throat and she sprang to her feet.

  She was so stupid.

  “So, so stupid,” she whispered.

  But then, she’d been stupid before. It was what had started this mess in the first place.

  Jennifer ran her hands through her hair. It needed cutting. It was thick and there were times it seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Her hands stilled.

  That was the first thing Craig had ever said to her.

  “Those pretty curls look as if they have a mind of their own,” he’d said over the Route 66 Roadside Café breakfast menu as she stood waiting to take his order one rainy morning. “I’ll bet you didn’t get them from a beauty parlor.”

  As pickup lines went it had been a little better than the ones she usually heard so she’d smiled politely and said no, she hadn’t, and would he like toast or muffins with his eggs?

  He’d chatted pleasantly as she served his meal and that night, when her shift ended, he’d been waiting outside the cafe.

  “How about getting some supper?” he’d asked.

  “Thanks,” she’d replied, “but I already had mine.”

  “Then how about a lift home?”

  She’d said no to that, too. But the streets were deserted and the wind was frigid, and when he’d asked her if she really was choosing freezing to death over riding in comfort, she’d laughed and given in. Craig had taken her to the door and waited until she was safely inside, and then driven off, leaving her more impressed by his good manners than by his flashy car.

  He’d turned up at the café a lot after that, his good looks and polite manners drawing oohs and aahs from the other waitresses.

  And he’d shown her nothing but respect and kindness.

  He took her to a little Chinese place the next town over when she thought she’d sooner die than look at one more hamburger or grilled cheese sandwich. He remembered that she liked green tea with lemon. He asked how her day had gone and really listened when she answered.

  No one, not in all her life, had ever paid that much attention to her. She had never known her father and her mother had always been busy trying to make ends meet.

  Being the focus of someone’s attention was a new and wonderful experience. In retrospect, she knew she’d been almost pathetically grateful for each kind word, each kind gesture.

  And he never looked for anything in return.

  A goodnight kiss. A smile. Nothing more.

  Until that last, awful night.

  They’d been driving home from a movie.

  Suddenly, he’d turned onto a narrow road. And before she could even ask him where they were going, he’d pulled under a big tree and turned toward her.

  In a heartbeat, his hands had been all over her, his mouth hot and wet on hers.

  “Stop,” she’d pleaded. “Craig. Please…”

  “I like the innocent act,” he’d said. “It’s a real turn-on.”

  Jennifer had struck out at him with her fists. But, in the end, he’d overpowered her.

  He’d seemed genuinely amazed that she’d stumbled from his car when he got off her.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he’d yelled as she ran.

  But she’d kept running and somehow, she’d made it home.

  She’d thought about calling the police, but what would she tell them? How did you prove you’d been raped when your rapist was a seemingly nice man you’d been dating for more than a month?

  She’d told herself she would forget what had happened. That she would put it out of her mind.

  But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. And what had happened next…

  The memory was almost too much to bear.

  Her mother suddenly became ill. Terribly ill. In the frantic search to find out what was wrong and how to treat it, Jennifer ignored everything else.

  Including the fact that she’d missed two periods.

  By the time she realized she was pregnant, abortion, had she wanted to have one, was no longer an option.

  She would have her baby.

  She tried not to think about how she’d take care of her mother while carrying her child, or how she’d keep her job, or what she’d do about child care once the baby was born.

  Dr. Ronald had asked her all those things and when she had no real answers, he’d grown stern.

  “And what will you tell your mother?” he’d demanded. “How do you think she’ll react when she knows you’re going down the same path she did?”

  “It isn’t the same. I was raped!”

  “The end result will be precisely the same,” the doctor had said brusquely. “You’ll be a single mother raising a child alone. If you don’t want to consider how that will affect a child, consider what it will do to your mother. She’s dying, Jennifer. Is this the last thing you want her to know about you and your future?”

  That was when he’d first mentioned adoption.

  She’d recoiled in horror. Give up her baby? Give it to strangers? Spend the rest of her life wondering if her child was happy or sad, healthy or sick?

  Ronald had urged her not to be selfish.

  “It’s the right decision,” he’d said. “For your mother. For you. And for your baby. Trust me, I’ll take care of everything—and I’ll find your baby the world’s best parents, I promise.”

  The decision had been agonizing, but finally she’d agreed that he was right.

  Adoption was the only choice for her baby, for her mother, for herself.

  Fortunately, she’d carried small. Her pregnancy hadn’t shown beneath the oversize sweaters and loose clothing that was all the rage that year.

  And true to his word, the doctor had handled everything.

  She’d delivered her child in Chicago Women’s Hospital at seven-thirty in the evening, January sixteenth. It had been a frigid night with wind-blown snow pattering against the windows.

  She’d begged to see her baby. The doctor told her it would be a mistake.

  “Let her go straight into her adoptive mother’s arms,” he said. “Let them have the joy of an immediate bon
d. Do that for your child. Let that act of kindness be your gift to her.”

  Two days later, eyes still red and swollen with tears, she was at her mother’s bedside, answering questions about the flu that had kept her away while the doctor smiled his reassurance across the tubes that snaked in and out of her mother’s body.

  “You did the right thing,” he’d said later.

  Now, she began crying again, just as she had that night.

  She had done the right thing. She knew it in her heart.

  It was just that no one had ever told her how badly she’d ache for the child she’d never seen.

  Sometimes, when she held Susanna in her arms, the pain was almost more than she could bear. How could Alexandra Campbell have turned her back on her daughter and her husband? Roarke’s former wife had had it all—a child to love, a man who was surely everything any woman could ever want.

  A man whose heart still belonged to her.

  Jennifer wiped her eyes.

  There was only one way out. She’d known it for days. She had to leave the island before things went any further, before—

  “Jennifer?”

  Roarke’s voice, and his light rap at the door, startled her. Her gaze flew to the clock. He was earlier than usual, the earliest he’d been in days.

  “Jen? Are you in there?”

  She drew a steadying breath, then got to her feet. “Yes,” she called. “Just a second.”

  By the time she opened the door, she’d dried her eyes and pasted a smile to her lips. But it wasn’t enough to fool him. She could see that in the way that he frowned when he saw her.

  “You missed Susanna,” she said brightly. “I didn’t realize you’d be home this early. You should have phoned—I’d have kept her up for you.”

  “Have you been crying?”

  “Me? No. Of course not. I have allergies, that’s all. There must be something blooming that—”

  “We have to talk.”

  His voice was sharp, almost curt. It made her bite down on her bottom lip.

  “Yes,” she said after a few seconds. “You’re right. We do.”

  Roarke stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

  She drew a deep breath. “Roarke. I—I can’t stay here any longer.”

  Color drained from his face. “I thought it was something like that.”

  “I wish I could explain why I have to leave,” she said softly. “But I can’t.”

  He laughed harshly. “Hell, what’s there to explain?” He brushed past her and walked to the French doors. “You’re unhappy here. I’ve known it for days.”

  “No. No, it isn’t that.”

  Roarke swung toward her, and her heart clenched when she saw the undisguised pain in his eyes.

  “Don’t lie to me, dammit! Even a fool could tell you’re not happy.”

  Let him believe what he wants, Jennifer told herself. What did it matter, as long as she left?

  But then she looked into his eyes and she knew that she couldn’t let it happen this way. She had lied to him about too many things. She could not he about this.

  “It has nothing to do with being here,” she said softly.

  “I know it’s a hard way to live. You’re young. And beautiful. And there’s not much to do here—”

  “You’re wrong. I love this island.”

  “It’s a boring place.”

  “Have I complained about being bored?”

  “We’ll go to San Juan for an evening. Would you like that?”

  “Roarke. Listen to me. I’m not bored. I don’t want to go to San Juan. The truth is I don’t much care if I never see a city again.”.”

  “Is it spending so much time with Susanna? Maybe you need to be around people. Adults—What?” he said, when she rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  “For the last time—I’m not bored. I don’t miss crowds or cities. And I love being with Susanna.”

  “It’s me, then. You’re tired of being alone with me.”

  Her eyes flew to his. He was watching her with an intensity that was almost like a caress.

  Lie to him, she told herself, just lie…

  “Is it?” He took a step toward her. “Jesus, is it being with me that’s making your eyes so dark with sorrow?”

  A lump rose in her throat, and she knew that she could not have told him anything but the truth at that moment if her life had depended on it.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “No, it’s not you. Never you.”

  He looked at her for what seemed a long time, and then he opened his arms and she went into them.

  He’d held her before. Touched her before. Kissed her before. But this time, when he drew her against him, when his mouth claimed hers, she gave herself up to him, to what he made her feel.

  His kiss seared her lips. Her soul. And when he kissed her throat, cupped her breasts, she moaned with pleasure.

  “Jennifer,” he said thickly. “I want to make love to you.”

  It was what she wanted too—but if they made love how would she ever find the strength to leave him?

  “Roarke.” She put her hands against his chest, felt the heavy race of his heart beneath her palms. “There’s so much you don’t know…”

  He kissed her again.

  “I know that you don’t really want to leave me.”

  Another kiss, gentle at first and then it became hot and deep. She felt the swift, sweet thrust of his tongue.

  Susanna’s soft cry rose into the silence of the night.

  Roarke’s arms fell to his sides. He was breathing hard.

  Jennifer stepped back. She was trembling.

  He drew a long breath. Then he smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “There’s a voodoo ceremony tonight. We’ve been invited.”

  “I don’t think—”

  He silenced her with a kiss.

  “Nine o’clock,” he said, and then he was gone.

  * * *

  The moon seemed tinged with blood as it touched the black sea.

  Orange flames from a fire licked hungrily into the night, casting eerie shadows across the men and women gathered on the sandy plateau.

  Jennifer edged closer into the protective circle of Roarke’s arm.

  “Do they know we’re here?” she whispered.

  “Yes, of course. I told you. We were invited.”

  “Me too?”

  He laughed softly. “You too. You’ve made quite an impression on the people of Isla de la Pantera.”

  “What’s that?” She nodded toward a flat boulder on which were set candles, flowers, and objects which she couldn’t quite identify.

  “An altar.” He bent his head so that his lips were close to her ear. “Those are things sacred to the Loa they’re honoring tonight.”

  She glanced up at him. “Loa?”

  “It means ‘god.’” There’s a pantheon of gods in voodoo—nature gods, both good and evil.”

  “There aren’t going to be any sacrifices or anything, are there?”

  Roarke smiled. “No.”

  “What will they do, then?”

  “Dance. Pray. That’s what tonight’s gathering is all about. See? There’s the hungan—the priest. He’s going to make an offering to the Loa.”

  “You said there wouldn’t be any sacrifices.”

  He chuckled. “This one won’t hurt anybody.” The hungan bent over the fire and tipped something into it; a bright blue flame shot into the sky and then died. “Rum,” Roarke whispered. “For the god. Now the priest will bless the drums. They’re just near the altar. See?”

  Jennifer watched as the hungan struck each drum lightly, then sprinkled it with rum. Men stepped out of the shadows, lifted the instruments, then fell in a straggly line behind the priest and walked three times around the altar.

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Blessing the drums, I think.” Roarke nodded. “Yes, here we go. The women are stepping into the firelight, and now
the men.”

  The drummers settled down on the sand, just beyond the fire. A slow, throbbing beat rose into the night, and slowly the worshipers began to dance. The steps of each dancer were different. Roarke explained that the dancers were honoring the gods Damballa and Erzilie. The beat of the drums grew louder and faster, and the motions of the dancers became more agitated as they moved around the fire.

  Suddenly, a woman threw back her head. Her features became contorted, she cried out as if she were in pain, and she fell to the sand, her body twisting in a frenzy.

  Jennifer dug her fingers into Roarke’s arm. “What’s happened to her?”

  “She’s been taken over by a spirit.”

  “Should we help her?”

  “That’s just what she wanted to happen. She wants to pray for the future and ask forgiveness for the past.” Roarke turned Jennifer toward him. “She wants to change what has been,” he said softly, his eyes on hers, “and hope that the best is yet to come. Does anyone want less?”

  “No,” she said in a low voice. “No one does. But it’s not like that in the real world. You can’t undo what’s happened any more than you can read what’s coming next.”

  “Maybe not.” Roarke’s hands slid to her waist. “But you can reach out for what you want after you’ve set the past aside.”

  “That’s not true.” Her voice was swift, almost slurred. “What’s done is done. It’s part of your life.”

  “But you can make peace with it.”

  Jennifer put her palms against his chest. “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  His “yes” was filled with certainty. Was he talking about his failed marriage? About the wife he could not forget? She wanted to know, but what right had she to ask Roarke about his past when she was afraid to tell him about her own?

  A tremor went through her, and he drew her close into his arms.

  “Sweetheart? Are you cold?”

  The soft term of affection brought tears to her eyes. Did he mean it? Did he feel for her anything near to what she felt for him?

  “Jen. What is it?”

  “Nothing.” She swallowed hard. “I was just—I was thinking that the people gathered around that fire are asking their gods for a lot.”

  Roarke nodded. “For miracles,” he said softly. He cupped her face and tilted it up to his. “But that’s what a night like this is all about. It’s a night to ask for miracles.”